Webs of Vengeance
by TobyWong
Summary: Sequel to The Apprentice. When Darla Hails seems to find the opportunity of revenge around the corner, an old friend wants revenge... against her.
1. Chapter 1

_I - Alone_

Joan Clarke shivered in the shadows. The winter was cold, especially that night. The wind blew hardly against her face. The coat she had didn't shelter her much. She thought of her parents. How concerned they probably were. It had been a week since she had ran away. She had packed her bag with some clothes, stole two hundred euros from Dad's wallet and took off. She could not stay there anymore.

Realisation hit her one morning after returning from a party. An orgy of drugs, alcohol and sex with half the people of her school class. At some point, she passed out. She could have sworn she had been choked to death. The striker of the football team had put a nylon bag on her face while he did it to her. She had liked it at first but then...

She knew things were not the same now. Something had changed. School was oblivious. Her parents didn't matter to her. She suddenly felt she did not belong there. Her first night on the street had been rough. A dude had tried to steal her coat, and another to rape her. But she had got by the week and found a nice space in an alley near the train station. The strangest thing however was those weird headaches she got every once in a while.

Like the one she had a while ago. Then the homeless little dewy-eyed blond cherub in the sports jacket appeared, looking for a place to sleep. She had embraced the child motherly and was falling asleep after he had.

-----

She woke up at some point in the night. The boy was not with her. She stood up and spotted him near. He had something in his hands. It seemed a stick. She rubbed her eyes. It was not a stick. It glistened and reflected the dim light of the alley. It was... a small sword. He went slowly towards her threateningly.

Joan tried to run, but where? She was cornered. The kid thrust at her and wounded her shoulder. She cried in pain. Her head spun. Not the headache again, she thought. The boy turned.

Someone appeared at the entrance of the alley. It was a woman. Early twenties, brown curly hair, beautiful fleshy lips, wearing a pair of old jeans and a wool sweater under a warm leather coat. He did not seem pleased at her appearance. She moved towards them.

The boy stormed towards her, swinging his sword. She grinned when she saw him come. When he was close enough, she extended her leg and kicked him in the stomach. He fell over his back. She kicked him again, this time in the face. He passed out.

"Are you OK?" she asked to Joan.

"I... I am. What...?"

"It's a long story. Have you got a name?"

"Joan... Joan Clarke."

"I'm Darla Hails."

"What was all that about? A boy carrying a sword?"

"He's not a kid. He looks like a kid but he's older than you. Even older than me."

Joan stood up, disregarding the comment about the boy's age. She spotted a golden chain on Darla's neck. What would that be? How much would it cost? It did not matter.

"I felt a splitting headache. What...?"

"You have no clue, do you?"

"Clue of what?"

"Nothing really." Darla looked backward to the entrance of the alley. Kenny was still unconscious. Joan thought she had attitude. However, she could see in her eyes some sort of emotional emaciation.

"Anyway... I should go back to sleep... if you take him away of course."

"No problem. Sweet dreams."

Joan lay down covered in her coat She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. She heard the air being cut, and that was the last thing she ever sensed.

-----

When the brief Quickening was over, Darla stiffly picked up her sword and squatted beside the kid, who was slowly regaining conscience. He noticed her and tried to scramble up and run. She pushed him to the floor.

"Hello, Kenny."

"Let me go!"

"You almost killed me once. I was young and stupid, as that girl was."

"But your friend saved you."

"Even so."

"I'm just a kid!"

"Spare me the routine. There's your sword. Pick it up and we'll have a proper combat."

The petty sword was ahead of them. Kenny looked at her hesitantly, then stood up and went for it. She went after him and no sooner did he pick her sword than she struck hard, breaking his blade.

"You said this would be proper!" he cried as she put up her sword.

"I lied." She muttered before slicing off Kenny's head.

The Quickening blasted her insides. Energy flew vastly through her blood, making it boil. The painful pleasure it gave her was unexplainable. Kenny's 800 years of experience penetrated her as bolts of energy that shook her. Then it was over.

Her face was different. Sadness slowly began to appear in her face. She left the alley and headed to the station, where the train for Paris was waiting. Her bags already inside, she got in and sat down against the window. She stared at her own reflection, and burst into tears.


	2. Chapter 2

_II - The Sister of Death_

She was staring blankly against the window when she sensed an immortal around. She put her hand on the grip of her sword and sighed out. Immortality was taking its toll on her. She had grown accustomed to the senseless fights and the bloodletting, but ever since Victor's death, all was going downhill. Every head taken meant days of angst and sadness.

But she was still taking them. Whenever an immortal crossed path with her, it meant battle, and her victory. She felt she owed that to her beheaded master. Victor had roamed the world for more than 2000 years taking heads, until someone he could have called friend decapitated him. Now she wandered around like he did, in some sort of humble tribute that she didn't intend to pay. She was making an impression among others of her kind, who grew apprehensive of meeting her. She somewhat liked it, and it fed some sort of inner hunger for heads she abhorred but could not but please. She had even been nicknamed: The Sister of Death.

She stood up and headed to the back of the train, where the bags were. In her way she bumped into a young child. Six years old, running around as his mother ordered him to return to his seat. He smiled at her, and she beamed in reply as the mother apologised. She allowed herself to think of the homeless girl.

She had beheaded the naive Joan out of mere sympathy. Having become immortal at 20, she knew teenagers found it difficult to adapt to the reality immortality brings to your doorstep, especially in a world where immortals were growing more and more belligerent against each other. The girl never knew what hit her. She had killed her with kindness. Joan had felt no pain.

The little punk was a different thing. In the past, Darla had fallen in Kenny's trap just like Joan did. The kid had taken her to an abandoned store and stabbed her in the back. Victor saved her before Kenny could take her head and her pitiful Quickening. The kid had never played by the Rules. Given his height and strength, his attitude made sense, but was not excusable. There had to be a battle of one immortal against another. If he could not do that, then he was better off dead. She entered the last wagon. No one was there, and after a while, no one came.

-----

She returned to her seat and on the way there felt the premonition again. Approaching her place, she realised there was someone sitting next to her seat. A tall slim man with black hair that fell to the shoulders noticed her and grinned. There was a scar in his face, running from below the left eye to his cheek. She sat down and for a second stayed quiet.

"What are you doing here?" she spat up.

"Taking the train."

"This can't be a coincidence, Methos. The Watchers must have hinted you on my whereabouts."

"Actually, it is a coincidence. You look well, Darla."

"And you look scarred. Victor did it to you before you whacked his head?"

Methos sighed at the comment.

"I did what I had to, Darla." He lowered his voice. " It's what we do. We are immortals. We take heads."

"Spare me the lecture." She said distantly. "Why Paris and not... Budapest?"

"I have an acquaintance to meet. You?"

"A friend... a future immortal."

"Good. May I get to know him?"

"Be grateful we're not alone. Otherwise, your head would fall.""

Methos laughed soberly. "Won't you ever forgive me?"

"For what? For taking the head of the person I cared most in the world?" She let the angry words out in a rush, without thinking. She looked down. Emotion was threatening to overcome her. Her eyes went moist.

"Memories fade, Darla. They are designed that way."

"They do. But the scars still linger."

"So you've taken more than a hundred heads in the last year to overcome the pain? I wonder what he'd say about it."

"He'd be pleased."

"Of what? Of your becoming a killing machine like him? Of being 'The Sister of Death'? You were not like that, Darla."

"You made me that by taking Victor's head. Now all I have of him is his relic and his sword. I don't even know where his body rests." Anger ran through her.

"Boston. Close to your mother's grave."

"What a gesture!" she said bitterly before leaning against the window, trying to catch some sleep.

"You will never let it go, right?" Methos queried.

"You know I won't." She replied before frowning.

"Well." Methos opened a cheap paperback. "I guess we'll always have Paris."


	3. Chapter 3

_III - Karma_

1990. A disco in Buenos Aires. Darla Hails was dressed in tight black leather trousers, a turquoise tee shirt with a low cut, and made up in the new romantic fashion. A furious dark purple framed her green eyes, and the black lipstick covered the pinkness of her lips. Glass in hand, she was burbling to a man who paid her hardly any attention, but was intent on the cut of her tee shirt.

She felt the buzz and almost fell off her seat. She was drunk and she had left her sword at the hostel. It gave her some sort of guilt and she took yet another drink to relieve it. A brunette in a red shirt and a black skirt sat beside her. She asked for a beer and drew Darla's attention.

"I'm Gabriela Maria Cuadra Saavedra." Darla thought she had a nice voice, and that Argentine accent leaking through every syllable of her badly pronounced English made her more attractive than she already was.

"I'm... Darla... Hailssh." The slurred reply made Gabriela laugh.

"Are you here for action?"

"I left my... sshhword at home."

"So did I. Getting drunk is dangerous for one of us. Especially if you leave your blade at home. You should know that."

"Victor never told me..." A hiccup. "... that."

"Victor... is he your master?"

"Only in the teacher sense... someone I..." Darla giggled stupidly.

"Someone you...?" Gabriela repeated. "Yes. I know the feeling."

"But are you on good terms with that persshon?"

"I guess so. I don't know. I haven't seen him in a century. But I still miss him. How old are you?" Gabriela asked, always with a beautiful smile.

"Twenty-eight." Another drunken hiccup followed the words.

"You still have so much to learn, young lady. Perhaps we could meet for some lessons on... life in general... in my apartment perhaps... now."

Darla found the invitation too irresistible to deny it, and had it been otherwise, she was too drunk to say no. She beamed as she leant closer and closer to Gabriela's face and mouth...

-----

Darla woke up with a start. The train was not moving anymore. The wagon was empty and she noticed a security guard moving toward her, surely to wake her up. She grinned with a bit of embarrassment, stood up and got off the train. Where was Methos? She did not know, and did not care.

She took a taxi to the hotel where she had booked a room. She thought a bit about Gabriela. Their relation had been brief, yet intense. Darla was wandering the world, and wanted Gabriela to join her. But the other was deeply rooted in Buenos Aires. Parting had been sad for Darla. Not as sad as was parting with Victor, but sad still.

She checked in at the hotel and entered her room. Her bags already in, she slammed the door and opened a black suitcase. She took out and assembled three pieces of metal, which together formed a large broadsword. She stared at the blade and her own reflection. She pushed a button in the hilt, and two very short blades surged out of it at the sides of the larger blade.

Darla put on a large coat, hid the sword in it, and walked out. His friend Christophe was waiting near Champs Elysees. She had met him shortly after Victor's death. He was 23 and good looks, but something else had drawn her. They were only friends. She felt he wanted more than that, but it was not the right moment. It might never be it.

The place was just as she remembered it. Beautiful. He sensed a dim buzz and looked around. A shorthaired man, with red hair and a pair of fine glasses waved at her. She smiled and went towards him. They kissed on the cheek twice.

"You look bella." He said in a bad mix of English and Italian.

"Merci." She replied. He was rather obsequious at times, and always told her romantic things. She could not deny she liked it.

"So... what do you want to do?"

"Actually, there's a friend I have to meet. Want to come?"

"Oui." He replied. She felt that the answer would be the same even if she suggested going to a nude beach full of male Africans just released out of prison after twenty years in sole confinement.

----------------

They headed to a church nearby. Almost at the gates, she felt the premonition and smiled. They went inside the church and moved through the central alley. Empty. She coughed loudly, and it echoed. A priest appeared from the confession box. He smiled happily.

"Hello, Darius." She said joyfully. The priest and her hugged. "Christophe. This is Darius."

"We know already, Mon cheri. Hello, father."

They followed Darius to his room, where he showed them a chess table. Darla sat down and Christophe went to the altar to pray. They began to play. Darla moved a pawn. Darius moved his horse.

"You like him, right?"

"I do, Darius. But you know he's one of us... I'd hate he became immortal because of being with me."

"Indeed." He sneezed. "You look... different, Darla."

"I guess you've heard the news on me."

"The Sister of Death? That's not what I mean."

"I'm not fine, Darius. There's been... certain issues." Darla's voice was cracking.

"You were not fine when I last met you. You'd just parted with Victor, and were still getting over it. I wish I hadn't told you his story, but I didn't know that your Victor was the same person I'd met a hundred years ago." He paused. "Now, you're... battered. Emotionally battered."

"He was beheaded. I will never see him again, and I never told him that..." She stopped. She felt vulnerable.

"He knew, Darla. You have to survive him, or it will consume you."

"It's hard." Finally, Darla opted to move another pawn. Darius moved a knight and ate it.

"You have to get over it. It doesn't mean that you stop feeling what you feel. The day you do that, you'll be a dead woman walking."

"Thanks, Darius." She smiled. "But in a way, we are all dead people walking."

They laughed at the comment. Darla managed to eat Darius' knight, but in the endeavour she lost a tower, the two horses and the queen. He was close to the checkmate when their heads welcomed the premonition.

"Who might it be?" Darius wondered.

"I have an idea." She said bitterly.

Darius left the room first and Darla followed him. Christophe was gone. Methos was sitting in the first seat next to the altar. He raised his eyebrows in salutation. A brunette woman was kneeling in the seat behind him. She looked up. Her face revealed bliss in seeing Darius, and rage when her eyes placed over Darla. The young immortal was surprised of seeing her friend again, but why was she darting daggers at her?

"Gabriela..." she uttered.

Gabriela Maria Cuadra Saavedra stood up, and produced a saber. She went forward, past Darius and tried to slice Darla, who managed to move away. Darla produced her sword and went behind the altar. Darius had gone away. Methos stood up.

"This is holy ground, Gabriela."

"I don't care, Adam!" a bitter shriek replied.

Gabriela lunged at Darla. Metals clashed. Darla pushed the other away and had a clear chance to stab her. But she did not want to hurt her friend. And it was holy ground.

"What is it?" She asked.

"You killed him!"

Darla moved towards the central alley. Gabriela struck. Darla slipped when blocking and her sword fell as she did. The Argentine immortal swung her sword up and made it fall heavily down. The clash was deafening. Another sword had appeared. Methos was staring from behind. Darla saw the blade of an old Roman sword firmly saving her head.

"Darius..." she mumbled.

The priest had blocked the deathblow. Gabriela withdrew her sword and hid it.

"Just because of you, Darius. But only this time." She said with frustration. She moved past them and out of the church. Methos took the sword out of Darius' hands. The priest looked perturbed. Darla stood up, on the verge of tears. She headed back to Darius' room, under the concerned look of Methos and Darius.


	4. Chapter 4

_IV - Start of the breakdown_

Darla was looking blankly through the large window of a room in the second floor of the church, leant forward with her head out to feel the cold breeze. She sensed an immortal coming but did not move. Methos leant similarly next to her.

"Are you OK?"

"I don't know." Darla whispered softly. "What could I have done to...?"

"She's angry because you took the head of someone she cared deeply for."

"Sounds familiar." She commented bitterly, expecting some sardonic, caustic reply she now felt she deserved.

"We take heads. Some of us seem to forget it." Methos spoke wisely. No sarcasm whatsoever.

"Who was it?"

"Someone whose death could've been avoided."

Darla thought backwards. All the immortals she had killed. They had all died in fair combat. Except for the naive homeless girl and the little punk. She hid her face behind the hands, remembering another immortal. One whose life she had saved only to take it away a second later. The guilt hurt.

"Duncan MacLeod."

"Apparently he took part of the Paraguayan forces in the Triple Alliance Invasion. Later he moved to Buenos Aires, and came across her." Methos grinned. "She always spoke highly of him."

"He was good-looking." Darla admitted with a tiny smile. "Is there any way to make up for it?"

"Do I have any way to make up for Victor?"

"Double no. That means I shall have to let her take my head."

Methos put his hands on her shoulders and made her look at him.

"That's not what he would have wanted."

"What other choice do I have?"

"Do I look like surrendering my head to you? I wouldn't do it. Not without fighting at least." Methos asked. Darla found it hard to keep her eyes on him, especially now that she was going lachrymal. She moved away and stopped at the door.

"You mean... decapitate her if I can?"

"What else?"

She did not say anything. She just left the room.

-----

"I had to go... and I did not want to disturb your game."

Christophe was giving his excuses for having disappeared. Darla sipped some tea and smiled.

"You did not miss much. My ass whipped only."

"It would have been interesting... It's a trend with Darius." He grinned as he downed his coffee.

She felt someone. Panic took her over for a second, before she realised it was a public place. Her eyes looked around. People coming and going. The waiter passed by them, and she noticed a couple in the distance. Methos and Gabriela. Her heartbeat rate increased when it seemed they would approach them. But the woman went away sending one last glance of hatred towards her. Methos did approach.

"Hello, Darla." He said with a good fake smile.

"Hi, Adam." She replied, becoming suddenly the friendliest person on Earth. "Christophe, this is Adam. Adam, Christophe."

Methos offered his hand and fixed his eyes upon the pre-immortal. Christophe shook it and looked away.

"I just wanted to say hello. Good to meet you."

"Good to meet you too." Christophe replied distantly. He seemed uncomfortable. Methos had looked at him in a peculiar way. That probably had made her friend uneasy.

"He's one of a kind." She uttered.

"Seems a nice... fellow."

"Sometimes he is." She was lying. Who cared about Methos?


	5. Chapter 5

_V - Breakdown_

9 PM. Darla was heading to church for the nth rematch. She felt the usual buzz when she entered, but it was double. Another immortal was with Darius. She put her hand on the hilt of her sword as she entered. Three people were arguing near the altar. Darius, Methos and a man in his early fifties, holding a cane and stuffed in a very warm coat. Darla grinned as she approached, noticed by the two immortals.

"Dawson." She muttered.

"Hey." Joe Dawson answered without any friendliness.

"What's up?"

"Let's go inside." Darius suggested.

They went to a large room in the first floor and sat around a small wooden table.

"What's so important for a Watcher to get involved with immortals?" Darla queried. "Another immortal is using you to take heads?."

"The smart Sister of Death has spoken." Dawson mocked. There was not a good atmosphere, and they evidently did not like each other.

"Once people called me Death." Methos tried to relieve the tension. Both Dawson and Darla stared him down. He raised his eyebrows and went quiet.

"I'm here because our rules have been broken. One of us has made contact with an immortal. And this time, there's no justification for it."

"What immortal is so desirable to make his Watcher try and make contact?" Darla asked, giving hardly any relevance to the matter.

"Her... you, Darla." Methos spoke now.

She blinked. Pieces fit in the puzzle she had never noticed. Methos was not looking strangely at Christophe because he was a pre-immortal. He knew him. She shook her head and breathed out slowly.

"Why he'd do that?"

"You're not very smart, girl. Look at yourself." Dawson uttered. "A beautiful young-looking immortal who is the only known apprentice of the Kurgan... I knew I should have assigned someone else. He admires your master and knows all about him." He shook his head. "My mistake."

She felt cheated, stupidly deceived.

"You know that he...?"

"He doesn't." Darius spoke.

"Know what?" Joe asked.

"He is immortal... or will be one." Darla replied.

"That's a problem."

Footsteps were heard in the main floor. The structure of the church made every noise echo everywhere in it, even in the smallest crannies and nooks. Someone called out. Darius went downstairs and returned after a while. He handed an envelope to Darla. She opened it. "200 KM N PARIS. ALONE. MIDNIGHT. I HAVE HIM."

"What is it?" Joe asked.

"Gabriela has Christophe. He wants me in this location by midnight."

"Gabriela María Cuadra Saavedra?" Joe asked.

"Yes."

"You and her were... " He grinned sardonically "Close friends. She must have learnt of MacLeod."

"I'll take you there." Methos offered.

"No, thanks." She replied angrily.

"I'll take you." He repeated.

"Fine, but I'll go in the backseat. I'll avoid surprises that way."

"OK."

They left. Joe looked awkwardly at Darius, knowing himself out of place. The priest patted his shoulder amicably.

"Do you play chess, Joe?"

"Sure. Why not?"

-----

Midnight came and Darla and Methos were still on the road. She was looking through the window as Methos drove. There was a total quiescence of sounds.

"Will you fight her?" Methos broke the silence.

"If I have to die so that he lives, I will."

"I won't let you do that."

"I'm a grown girl, Methos. I can decide for myself."

He grinned. "I promised Victor I'd watch your ass."

"You liked what you watched? It's small but firm." The comment made him chuckle briefly before he went serious.

"I mean it. Let me handle her."

"Victor is dead, Methos. You don't have to keep your promise."

Methos was on the verge of saying something but kept quiet. He slowed down and the car lights illuminated the speed limit sign, which was covered by a long coat. He pulled over and they got off the car, swords in hand. They received a single strong buzz. A field of grown grass was ahead of them.

"Do you sense him, Methos?" she asked worriedly.

"No."

"Gabriela!" Darla called out. "I'm here."

No reply. She tried again. They entered the grass. There was a hole in the middle of the field, where there was no grass. There was a scarecrow in the centre of the hole. They moved towards it, and heard low gasps.

"Christophe!" she called. A sad moan replied. Almost at the clear spot, she noticed his hair and face, lying underneath the scarecrow. His mouth was open and he was struggling to breathe. Gabriela probably was somewhere around probably. She entered the clear field and shrieked. Methos saw the image and took her in his arms, shielding her from the view.

Christophe lay engulfed in blood. His legs had been severed off. So had his arms. They had been tossed away nearby. Rats were already nibbling them. A hideous smell of rotten flesh pervaded her nostrils and she went away to vomit over the grass. Methos did not seem affected. Darla wiped her mouth and squatted beside her friend.

"What has she...?" she said barely able to produce words.

"Darla... I'm... immortal?" he mumbled. Pain poured out through every syllable.

"Yes..." she replied, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm... sorry I... didn't... tell you... who I... was."

"It doesn't matter."

She caught a glimpse of the moonlight reflected in something near her. She looked up. Methos had his sword ready. She knew what it was for. She stood up, her blade in position.

"You will not do it, Methos."

She attacked. Methos opposed his blade to hers. He pushed her slowly downward and punched her in the face. She fell but stood up immediately. She lunged again, trying to slice his throat. He ducked and slashed her stomach. As she gasped and fell, he kicked her blade away. The wound healed quickly enough for her to stand up and jump over him before he beheaded the maimed man.

"Darla, stop it!" he yelled pushing her away. She ended up amid him and Christophe.

"You won't take his head, you bastard!"

"Then you take it!" Methos spat up as he dropped his guard. "What's the point of letting he live like that?" He turned and began to walk towards the car.

"He's... right..." Christophe mumbled. "Do it... please." Darla grasped her weapon, knowing it was the only way. It had to be done. She knelt and moved the large broadsword over her head.

"Adieu... mon amour." He mumbled. Always a romantic, even in the end. She closed her eyes and slammed her sword hard against the floor, taking Christophe's head in the way.


	6. Chapter 6

_VI - Words of wisdom_

Plunged in grief, she returned to the car. Her eyes were red after shedding so many tears. Blood had stained her sweater. She was absent. Methos chose to be silent and begin the way back. It was not till they were almost back in Paris that she spoke.

"Thanks." She said simply.

"For what?"

"For letting me do it."

"He was your friend."

She grinned and shrugged. "This must be a karmic retribution. If I hadn't blamed you for Victor's death, I wouldn't have undergone all this..."

"The Game is one of tangled webs. Our actions bring about consequences we like and dislike. Each of us has at least another of us who cares. Every head you take entails someone else claiming your head."

"So when you took his head, you knew how I would react?"

"That's not the same." Methos uttered.

"May I ask why?"

She was not feeling anger against him anymore. Perhaps it was the proximity of Christophe's death that made all her feelings turn towards Gabriela. Or the fact that she had tried his sword and been thoroughly defeated. Whatever the reason, she doubted she would be able to behead him when, and if the opportunity came.

"We're back." Methos said, parking the car near the church.

-----

"He's a rather good player." Darius said.

Dawson looked down modestly. They had played three matches. Dawson had won the first one. Darius the second. The third one had been hard for Joe, but he had managed to put Darius into stalemate. Darla and Methos had returned when they were about to begin the fourth match.

"Where's Christophe?" Dawson asked.

Darla shook her head, went out in silence and sat dejectedly near the altar. Methos sat down beside them. He took the black king in his hand and examined it in silence.

"Did she take it well?" Darius asked.

"His extremities were maimed... she had to finish him."

"Oh Lord." Darius went out to comfort Darla. Dawson and Methos remained in the room. Joe glanced at Methos, who remained lost in the shapes of the king.

"Thinking of something?" he asked.

"Just of life. If we know all the answers, and whether we must withhold them when we do."

"She doesn't know...?" Dawson queried.

"No. You will tell us where Gabriela is."

"Isn't it enough with keeping your true identity in secret?"

"Let's make a deal: give us the data, and I'll add some information to the Chronicles of Methos... hundred years are fine?"

"Fair enough. Let me do a couple of calls. But you will still owe me one."

-----

An hour later, Darla was again in the second floor window, and again Methos joined her. She had taken off the bloodstained sweater, and was letting the cold freeze her by wearing only a thin long sleeved white shirt.

"You will catch a cold." He said kindly.

"It won't kill me." She replied in a whisper.

"Tell me. How long has it been since you last looked at the relic?"

Darla put her hand under the shirt and took out the golden relic she wore in her neck. She passed her finger over the H carved in it. Helena MacDonald. She was Victor's fiancée and he had witnessed her murder.

"A long time."

"You recall what happened when he found her assassin."

"How could I forget it?"

"Then you know what I'll tell you."

"I can't fight her, Methos."

"Is this The Sister of Death speaking?" he joked. She grinned. The nickname was not nice anymore for her.

"I... killed him... and I can still feel his pain."

"Christophe's?

"His, and all the other immortals whose heads I've taken."

"We all do. But it wasn't you who killed him. You just let him rest. She's gone insane, Darla."

"I wouldn't know where to start looking."

Methos handed her a paper where a full location was written. She stared at him in gratitude. He smirked and began his way out.

"I had to give away a couple of centuries of my past to the Watchers, but what the hell?"

He left the room and took the stairs. Darla called out.

"What's it like to feel him inside of you, Methos?"

Methos carried on his way downstairs, not having listened.


	7. Chapter 7

_VII - Untitled_

Inside the boathouse she had inherited as per Duncan MacLeod's will, Gabriela María Cuadra Saavedra was packing her bags. Paris was too cold. Buenos Aires was not that different, but at least it did not snow heavily like now. Her mind ground to a halt upon feeling the buzz. She grasped her sabre and walked out.

Darla was standing still. Snowflakes fell over her, but her face gave nothing away. Her eyes widened when she noticed the owner of the boat appeared. She produced her sword and let the two small blades out. Gabriela stood at her same level.

"You found my little present?" she asked sarcastically.

The reply was a hard blow over her that she managed to block. Darla pushed hardly using her blade, while Gabriela barely managed to keep her at bay. Darla moved her sword away only to strike again, this time aiming at hurting the other's arm. Gabriela deflected the blow but could not prevent her opponent's knee contacted her stomach.

"You've lost your mind, woman." Darla spat up acidly as she retreated.

Gabriela stood up and wiped a trace of blood off her mouth. She went forward, slicing Darla's arm. The younger immortal seemed unaffected by the wound and deflected a posterior attack. The Argentine immortal attempted a fencing passado, but encountered a firm defense. Frustrated, she rammed recklessly at Darla but the other avoided the thrust and severed Gabriela's forearm. The maimed woman fell on her knees.

"Hell!" The shriek did not startle Darla, who stiffly did the same with the other arm.

"That was for Christophe."

Gabriela gasped in pain. Darla hit her hard in the face with the the grip of her sword. The blow made Gabriela fly over and fall hardly with her back to the ground. Darla put her sword up and closed her eyes. She thumped heavily against Gabriela's kneecaps, each a perfect horizontal line. A crack was heard, then a shriek. What had been legs, now were two separated things: on the one hand stumps; on the other, knees and forelegs.

"No!" Gabriela cried, her tears mixing with the blood on her mouth.

"That was for my lost friend."

Darla went up to Gabriela's head and stared right at the vanquished rival's face. Her sight blurred with tears but she did not shed any. She moved the sword over her head and let it fall heavily over the other's neck. The dim sound that followed seemed deafening.

"That was free."

Her feet began to shake, and then it was her whole body. Her skin burnt, her blood boiled, her eyes ached. Energy possessed her. She felt invigorated as the pleasant pain circulated through her body. She soared surrounded by a cloud of a green vapour that her pores absorbed. She felt her bitterness for MacLeod's death. Then bolts of lightning stroke her. She screamed.

Then it was over. She fell over the corpse. She stood up and took one last glance. What had been her former friend was now a headless body which was slowly being covered in snow, as the white underneath slowly tarnished of red. She walked away, feeling no sadness.

-----

A cemetery in Boston. Darla Hails, wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt and a white long skirt, moved past the rows of tombstones with a couple of flowers in hands. She stopped by a grave that read "Eleanor Hails 1948 - 1984. Beloved wife." She grinned sadly and left a flower by it.

She carried on walking and halted upon finding another tombstone, this one nameless. It was a shabby stone compared to the others, but she would not complain. She knelt and placed a flower by it. She felt emotion overcoming her. She did not resist. Tears tripped down her face.

She felt a buzz. She turned. Methos was watching from a distance. He had had a haircut. She wiped the tears and waved. He approached.

"I thought you'd be here. The Sister of Death in her backyard."

She smiled and shook her head.

"I haven't taken a head in more than a month. I'll have to change my nickname."

He grinned. "Darius sends his regards... he was the priest in Christophe's funeral... Joe kept the affair to himself, and the Watchers have no clue that there are immortals who know about them."

"It's... a nice grave." She said slowly after some instants of silence.

"Something ordinary would have annoyed him. So would something luxurious. It's a unique stone." Methos scratched his head.

"Like him." Darla grinned.

"How did you do manage to take her head?"

She looked away. "I realised I would have become like her eventually if I carried on pursuing your head. You knew that and that's why you tried to talk me out of my..." A pause followed. "Headhunting." She returned her eyes and fixed them intently upon Methos.

Methos kissed her cheek in farewell and moved away. When he was almost lost he turned and said one last thing to her: "That was not the reason."

She watched him disappear and returned her eyes to the grave. Then why? A funny feeling rose from her guts and hit her hard in the face. She knelt and began scratching the earth with her fingers until they bled. She stood up and produced her sword. She used it to dig. When the hole was deep enough and her knees were at ground level, she sunk the blade in the soil and heard the sound of the wood being cracked. She tore off a piece of a coffin, then another, until the body was at sight. A neatly dressed man, whose severed head was above his shoulders. Greyish hair and a funny moustache, over a face which was beginning to decay. That was not Victor.

She got off the hole. Her sober face hinted nothing. She hid the sword, removed the dirt off her clothes and began moving away. Why Victor had passed out as dead? She couldn't know. Why Methos had played along? She couldn't know. Perhaps he did not want her to wish upon someone she would never have. Perhaps the hoax was intended to toughen her character. Only they knew. She knew one thing only: she would find Victor and there they would settle things. They would remain together or they would part for good. Or maybe... one of them would lose the head to the other.

_**END**_


End file.
